


we will heal (even if we must break)

by NatureGirl202



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Some Jason Todd Whump, also proofreading is for the WEAK, beginning of reconciliation, first batfam fic in F O R E V E R, in which I try something that's been done a dozen times lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatureGirl202/pseuds/NatureGirl202
Summary: sometimes things have to break, so they can be fixed.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 187





	we will heal (even if we must break)

Jason wakes up with a splitting headache and the feeling of cold cement underneath him. He’s taking stock of his injuries—two broken ribs, a concussion, sprained ankle, and a burning sensation on the side of his abdomen that tells him he’s got a pretty deep wound there—when he’s roughly grabbed and—oh, add dislocated shoulder to the list—shoved into a metal chair. His wrists are zip-tied so tightly his fingers are getting numb and he doesn’t think even dislocating his thumbs would let him slip free from the binds. Damn. He can feel the air against his skin which tells him he’s missing all of his clothes except his boxers. That also tells him that whatever fuckers grabbed him are now definitely going to die. Yep. Screw whatever tenuous agreement he’s had with the Bats these last few months. He’s going to kill whoever’s behind this whole mess.

Which is part of the problem: he doesn’t actually know who the hell had grabbed him. Last he remembers, he’d been walking into his apartment and looking forward to a few hours of sleep after a long patrol. Figures: that the universe would take “I want sleep” and translate it as “knock me unconscious.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing as his sight is assaulted by a bright light pointed directly at him. He squints and- is that a camera? Oh, hell. He attempts to view his surroundings, but it’s difficult with the intensity of the light. Best he can tell, he’s in an empty warehouse. Glancing down, he does have clear view of the concerningly large puddle of blood beneath him that was probably his. A quick look to his abdomen confirms as such: a gaping hole in his side that tells him he’d been stabbed by something. If he has to guess going off the wound, probably something a like a rebar. It’s a real asshole move on their part, considering he hadn’t even been conscious when the wound was received.

Yep. Definitely going to kill this fucker.

“Undesirables of Gotham!” a voice suddenly booms behind Jason, the other presence in the room finally speaking. Unable to see, Jason catalogues the details: adult male, smoking problem, bit of a showboat. Hands clasp down on Jason’s shoulder, giving him a rough shake and aggravating each of his various injuries. Jason grits his teeth and glances at the hands: Caucasian, callused skin that contrasts with the sleeves of the nice suit he’s wearing. “I give to you: the infamous Red Hood!” Jason withholds a wince, realizing that his face is being broadcast to who the hell knows. Instead, he glares intensely at the camera, imagining what it’ll be like when he gets to slice this guy’s throat open. “Don’t believe me?” The man’s voice rises with the rhetorical question. Maybe he’ll cut the guy’s tongue out first.

Someone hidden behind the intense light tosses something in the air that the man behind Jason catches and he realizes it’s his helmet. He’s even more irritated now, but also hopes that if they decide to go poking and prodding at it that they do it far away from him. He’s not looking to get blown up a second time.

“Is this proof enough?” He tosses Jason’s helmet carelessly to the side. “Now, shall we start the bidding? As you can see, there’s a _wee_ bit of a time limit.” He’s probably referring to the amount of blood pouring from the hole in Jason’s side. That’s what Jason assumes, anyway, but it’s hard because black spots are starting to dance along his vision and he can feel his mind slowing, getting foggy. He struggles to hold on to consciousness, because while he doesn’t really see a way out right now, he has to be ready to grab onto one when it comes.

Except his eyes are drooping and his limbs are turning numb and damn, really, when he said he wanted sleep he did _not_ mean the permanent kind.

There’s a sudden, loud, crashing sound echoing through the building and the next thing Jason hears is the sound of gunfire and various curses. It takes Jason longer than it should to register the chaos, but the world’s already half faded out.

A yellow and purple blur makes its way into his vision. “Crap, you look like, well, _crap._ ” He can’t place the voice, which vaguely annoys him because he _knows_ he should be able to.

“-Put pressure on the wound.”

“-eady _am._ ”

“What’s-” He loses the battle against his eyelids.

“-ean-through.”

“-repare the cave imme-” Ah, he recognizes that deep growl, would anywhere. He feels himself being lifted and then he’s out like a light.

* * *

Jason wakes with a fuzzy feeling in his body and the comfort of a good cot underneath him. He blinks, his vision taking several moments to clear and adjust, before he’s able to recognize the ceiling greeting him.

Shit.

The batcave is one of the last places he wants to be… ever. Second only to the manor itself, which was right upstairs he knows and he couldn’t help but wonder what’s happening up there. Is Alfred in the kitchen preparing one of his ridiculously good meals? Is Bruce at the dining table, trying to cram in some work before Alfred finishes? Are the others there? Do any of them, aside from Damian, even live with Bruce anymore?

He forces his drug-addled brain into line. None of that shit matters. What matters is getting out of here before anyone came to check on him. He sits up—wincing as some of the soreness pokes through the painkillers he is hooked up to—and peers around, confirming he is the only one in the med bay. He takes a brief inventory of himself: there’s a brace on his ankle which will be annoying, his ribs are wrapped, and he has two bandages on the side of his abdomen, one more toward the front and one on the back. He briefly unsticks the tape on the front one to peer at the wound. It’s stitched up nicely—Alfred’s handiwork, no doubt. He then finds the needle stuck in his arm, follows it to a bag of IV painkillers, and promptly plucks that out of his skin. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bites his cheek against a curse as his body deeply protests such movement. He reaches for the heart monitor and switches the machine off before pulling the sensors off his chest.

Someone, it seems, had bothered to slip a pair of sweat pants onto him and he begrudgingly admits he’s kind of grateful for that. He doesn’t see a shirt lying around anywhere, though, but that’s fine. He knows where the stash of civvie clothes are down here. He can pilfer one from there.

He stands up with a quiet groan and briefly debates simply walking out of the cave, but even he’s not stupid enough to think that’ll end well. He’ll just borrow one of Dick’s bikes. Hobbling slightly, he makes his way out of the med bay and into the main portion of the cave. Alright, first order of business: a shirt, and hopefully some socks-

 _Motherfucking shit fuck._ Bruce is sitting there at the computer, cowl down, and obviously in the middle of something judging by the multiple amount of windows open on the screen, but his eyes are on Jason. His face is completely blank, in that way it usually is when looking at Jason.

“You’re awake” Bruce says after several moments of silence, tone giving nothing away.

 _No shit._ “Yup.”

Another beat of silence. “How do you feel?”

“Peachy” he lies and he knows Bruce sees right through it, his eyes flickering briefly to the hand Jason has clutching at his side in a useless attempt to ease the growing pain, but he doesn’t care. Once upon a time he cared whether or not Bruce could see through his lies, but now he’s kind of done giving a shit. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He hobbles further into the area, getting himself closer to where the vehicles are. Screw the shirt, he’ll wipe the bugs off his chest when he gets home. His eyes glance toward the screen of the batcomputer more thoroughly, though, and it takes him only a moment to recognize his own face glaring right at him. Oh, he realizes it’s a recording of that asshole’s little auctioning video. He really did look like crap. He looks to the figure standing behind him on screen and sees a tall man made up entirely of straight lines with a slightly gaunt face. He has a receding hairline and platinum blonde hair slicked back with an abundance of gel. His gaze is shrewd and his lips tilted up in a way that says “show me the world and I will conquer it.”

So, yeah, he looks like an asshole.

“Who’s he?” he asks, jutting his chin toward the screen. Bruce blinks exactly once, before turning back toward the computer. His brow lowers, mouth straightening in displeasure, and Jason inches closer to the vehicles.

“Elliot Wainwright, an auctioneer for the criminal underworld.”

“Huh.” Hadn’t heard of him. “His men grab me?”

“No. He was hired to oversee the auction. We’re… still trying to find who hired him.” Oh, well, that sucks, but Jason’s got connections the Bat doesn’t, so he’ll try his hand at it. After a good nap, though. “Thankfully, Elliot advertised the auction ahead of time, so Oracle was able to cut off the signal before it began. Your… identity is intact.” What little of one Jason has, goes unsaid, as it’s kinda hard to accrue one when you’re legally dead and don’t really bother leaving your apartment except for essentials and vigilantism. Still, it’s nice to know his face wasn’t broadcasted to all the ilk of Gotham.

“I’ll send Babs a thank you card.” Bruce just gives a noncommittal hum in response and his focus seems once more fixed on the computer, so Jason takes that as his opportunity to shuffle away. He’s barely made it two annoyingly difficult steps, before Bruce speaks again.

“The vehicles are on emergency lockdown.”

“What? Why?” Bruce just _looks_ at him and Jason really hates it that even after everything, Bruce can still predict him so well. “I’m not staying here.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “You were missing for three days. You have been unconscious for two. Your apartment is compromised.” Jason doesn’t know what any of that has to do with him being forced to stay here. He’s dropped off the radar plenty of times and been injured even more times and been fine—except that one time, obviously—and he also has plenty of safehouses he can hole away in. This is, of course, the first time he’s disappeared, and gotten seriously injured, since he’d started working with the Bats more, but he still doesn’t see how that makes one lick of difference. If they didn’t care then, why would they care now? “You’re in no condition to be on your own.” There’s a pause, he sees Bruce’s gaze sweep over him. “You should lay back down.”

Jason’s irritation spikes and he grits his teeth. “You can’t order me around anymore. I’m not a _kid_.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, just scowls, but Jason sees his eyes briefly flicker to something to the side, before he returns attention to the computer screen, clearly ending the conversation. Several expletives are on edge of Jason’s lips, but he looks to see what had caught Bruce’s attention to briefly before releasing him.

Ah, there it is, the ghost that haunts Jason. The memorial case sits there, Robin costume staring him down and that stupid little plaque hitting him like a slap in the face every time: “ _A Good Soldier._ ” Everyone else, he knew, was afraid of living in the shadow of the Bat. This was Jason’s inescapable shadow: the rose-tinted memory they all clung so desperately to. It influenced everything they thought about him, every expectation they set, and their disappointment when he inevitably _couldn’t_ or _wouldn’t_ meet them. They look at him and all they see is that rowdy kid they’ve built up so highly in their memories. He could be standing two fucking feet in front of any of them and he _knows_ they still miss him even when he’s _right fucking there_.

He just wants them to see him.

Rage boiling over into a cool sort of calm, he scans the batcave, finds a table with various tools lined up nicely. He walks over, finds the heaviest hammer he can reasonably lift, and grabs it. He goes to the case, then, and stares at it for a good moment, before giving the hammer a good, sturdy swing.

His entire body screams against the movement and effort, but he doesn’t care. He can also feel Bruce’s gaze now drilling bullets into him, but he doesn’t care about that either. All he cares about is that stupid case in front of him and the fact that it’s _still here_ even though Jason is too. It’s made out of ballistic glass, of course, so all that shows for his effort is a few cracks, but he’s persistent and strong and Bruce showed him how to break this stuff when he was being _a_ _good soldier_. It’s about a good fifteen minutes later when the thing finally shatters, the sound echoing through the cave and glass cascading down like sharpened little diamonds, some flecks landing in Jason’s hair. He’s panting, sweat dripping down his brow, and he’s pretty sure he’s popped some stitches and ruined whatever little healing his ribs had managed. Fuck it. He reaches forward, grabs the uniform by the chest, and halls it off its stand. On closer inspection, he can see the stitching patching together the bits torn apart by the explosion. He can also see the feintest leftovers of bloodstains that were too stubborn to leave despite what he assumes were Alfred’s best efforts. He feels a little nauseous at the sight—though that could also just be from the strain he just put his body through. With a sneer, he tosses the uniform aside.

He turns to Bruce. The man is still sitting in his chair, staring at the uniform and bits of glass on the ground. Jason waits until Bruce has looked back up at him. His face is once more ridiculously neutral, but his gaze in penetrating in that way Bruce’s eyes usually are. Sometimes, Jason still finds himself shriveling under that gaze. Now, though, he’s too worked up to give a damn.

“I’m _not_ a kid anymore.” It’s spat out through gritted teeth. Bruce continues to stare for long enough that Jason’s adrenaline is starting to fade and the pain is _really_ starting to set in, but he refuses to give in, standing rigidly and knuckles gripping the hammer white. Finally, Bruce stands, crosses the distance between them. Jason tenses further, readying for whatever retribution Bruce has in store for him destroying his precious memorial. Bruce looks him dead in the eye, opens his mouth, and:

“I know.” The words take a moment to settle in Jason’s mind. _The hell?_ He blinks a few times in surprise, then searches Bruce’s gaze, looking for any hint of denial or mistruth, but finding none. Bruce looks to the ground, looks back to Jason, there’s actual hesitation in his face now. “I’m… sorry.”

Jason flinches. “That doesn’t fix it.” _It_ being so very many things.

“I know.”

They stare at each other for several more moments. Jason’s adrenaline—his rage—dies out and all he’s left with is an incredibly sore body and an odd sense of relief in the back of his mind, like when you’ve been pushing at something heavy and it finally budges. Just an inch, not all the way where you need it to go, but it’s progress. He drops the hammer, heaves a shuddering breath, and sags forward. Bruce catches him easily, throwing Jason’s arm over his shoulders and his own around Jason’s waist. They begin making their way back toward the med bay.

“I’m not going upstairs” Jason says grouchily.

“Hm, alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](https://bxtgrl.tumblr.com/post/616508454660620288/we-will-heal-even-if-we-must-break). <3


End file.
